Shattered
by BarafundleBay
Summary: A particularly vivid and unsettling nightmare finally breaks the soldier once and for all, and Sherlock is the only thing that can calm him down. Angsty/fluffy Johnlock. Oneshot. Please give me reviews! I haven't written anything in a few months I've used all my time RPing ; , so any and all comments would be appreciated more than you know! Thank you dearly!


Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or either of the characters used.

John awoke with a start, sitting straight up and gasping as the images of his nightmare flashed before his eyes. In the dull light he looked down at his hands and could see the fading dreamlike hallucination of wounded-in-action soldier's and comrades' blood coating him from fingertip to middle arm. He was trembling, a symptom that he hadn't experienced except with nightmares. He could be in the middle of the battlefield and be perfectly steady, but when the gruesome memories of the traumatic experiences plagued him at night, he awoke with cold sweat-soaked clothes and violently trembling muscles. He dragged a shaking palm across his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose as he wiped away the renegade tears that had slipped out. Closing his eyes and trying to calm himself, he swung his legs off of the bed and felt his feet land on the floor before he placed his head in his hands again. A moment later he squared his shoulders and stood up, walking to the door and stepping out into the hallway, heading for the living room where he heard Sherlock rummaging around. When he entered the living room, he saw Sherlock bent over with his head poked under the couch, obviously in search of something. Having no intention or desire to speak to anyone at the moment, he quickly turned away and padded into the kitchen to start the kettle for tea. The rummaging stopped as he scuttled around the kitchen, being slightly clumsier than usual due to the trembling of his extremities. Pausing only slightly, he continued his movements in hope of Sherlock losing interest in watching him (as he knew by the fact that the tiny hairs on the back of his neck were prickling) and going back to whatever he had been so avidly searching for. John's back was to the detective, and he closed his eyes and suppressed a groan when he heard the man speak to him.

"John?" Sherlock asked, the simple word ringing out more than just his name. In his tone he was asking why he was awake, what was wrong, and most prominently why he was shaking and making no effort to talk to Sherlock. John caught every bit of it in the one interrogative syllable of his name.

John took a deep, silent breath before replying, though he kept his back turned. "Yeah?" he said back, not wanting to offer too many words so that he could keep hidden the tremulous quality of his voice. Much to his despair, the empty mug that he was holding slipped out of his sweating and quivering hand, falling to the floor and shattering into pieces as he jumped out of the way. "Fucking-" he breathed as he moved out of the way before dropping his elbows to the counter and pressing his forehead into his palms, bending at the waist. Great. Just fucking fantastic. The adrenaline from the crash had forced his heart rate to increase again and his breathing to become even more erratic. He had just begun to calm down slightly from his nightmare, and now all his attempts to calm himself had gone to hell. Not only the sudden shock from the loud noise, but the aftershock of the dream came crashing down on him at once, mercilessly and unyielding. He found himself bent over the counter, trying to silence the sobs that began wracking his body as he lost all control of his emotions. He vaguely heard Sherlock hesitantly walking up behind him before he recognized the sensation of a warm hand being placed on his shoulder. Sherlock said nothing for a moment; he simply stood there with his hand on John, gauging his reaction before proceeding to gently turn the doctor around and envelop him completely, holding him securely next to the comforting warmth of his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John gasped, desperately trying to get a hold on his emotions. He had been trained not to show vulnerability or weakness, knowing that he always had to be strong for the ones that were usually around him.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Sherlock breathed, pressing his lips to John's temple. John shook against the detective's body for what seemed like an eternity before he began to finally calm, the gasps and choked sobs slowing into a quieter stream of tears with an occasional hiccup. Sherlock remained quiet as he held John, feeling the shorter man's arms slowly wrap around his waist in a desperate search for consolation. John clutched at the back of Sherlock's shirt, feeling frailer and more exposed than he had since enlisting as he grasped the fabric; searching for something, anything, to hold on to-to ground himself again. "I don't know what's….what's wrong with me," he panted, trying to find anything to blame for his sudden and total collapse of the stronghold he had spent so many years building up on the battlefield. He rested his forehead against the detective's chest, taking a few more seconds to calm down before he looked up, his eyes red and swollen.

Sherlock looked down and met the doctor's gaze with one of the utmost compassion and sympathy, feeling a slight ache in his chest as he recognized how much this specific nightmare had completely and finally broken his soldier. "There's nothing wrong with you. Absolutely nothing." he assured, pressing his palm to the back of John's head and cradling it against his chest. "You've been suffering for so long, perhaps this release is exactly what you need," he suggested, though soon after felt that it meant nothing in actuality to the doctor. John shuddered a bit and leaned back, hastily wiping away the last of the tears that dripped from his face. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment as he gently extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp, taking another solidifying breath before daring to make eye contact with Sherlock again. His pained eyes met Sherlock's Caribbean blue ones; all the silvery-blue ice having melted into liquid sapphire pools. John didn't have it in him to say 'thank you', knowing that the two simple words would not even come close to expressing everything that he wanted to say to Sherlock. He pushed himself up a bit closing the small distance between his lips and Sherlock's, hoping that the action would speak more clearly than words would. Sherlock responded tenderly, not wanting to impose anything too harsh onto John at the moment in his weakened state. Pulling away, Sherlock led John over to the couch and urged him to sit down while he went to the kitchen and cleaned up the shattered mug, then grabbed a new one and finished preparing John's tea. When Sherlock returned carrying two mugs, John sighed and gratefully took one, holding it under his nose and letting the steam fill his face. He inhaled deeply, allowing himself to relax even further as his composure began to solidify again and the happenings of the night began to be pushed into the recesses of his mind. Sipping his tea, he drew his legs up beside him on the couch and leaned over to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder after the detective sat down next to him. Sherlock placed his arm around John's curled up frame, tracing mindless circles onto his shoulder as they drank their tea, letting the silence in the room speak for both of them.


End file.
